


ma mi

by halfaday



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, brief descriptions of wounds, haechan is a mummy, magical hurt/comfort, this is less of a ride than it sounds like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: Whom you get as a soulmate is really up to fate. For some it's the cute neighbour who moved in a few weeks ago, for others it's their childhood best friend. For a few it is someone they know, but for many it is a stranger.Mark fits that last category to a T, but he's set apart by two crucial details, that world-class criminals have decided to focus on: his soulmate is an (almost) four hundred years old mummy, with a little more than meets the eye.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 22
Kudos: 52
Collections: Challenge #3 — soulmates





	ma mi

**Author's Note:**

> i do not want to frighten you with a long beginning note about the title therefore its mysteries shall be placed at the end of this fic
> 
> thank you to my Too Many Frogs friend for saying this was ok when i had close to zero faith in it ♥

Sat on the floor of Jeno's apartment, head leaning against the ugly velvet couch his ex-roommate and still-current best friend won't throw away — holding an ice pack to his knee, and another to his ribs — Mark wonders how he ended up here.

It's not that he _doesn't_ know: technically, all the facts are there, in his mind, replaying again and again whenever he closes his eyes. There's his childhood, spent playing with the string of fate tied around his wrist; spent comparing said-string with classmates', adults' — there's his seventeenth birthday, during which he visited a seer and was told that it led to South Korea; on which he decided to dedicate his life to studying his grandparents' homeland — there's his years spent at university, first in Canada, then in South Korea — his job offer at the agency the father of Jeno's soulmate worked at — the two years spent _hoping_ he would stumble upon his other half at a dinner, an event, or by the printer on the second floor — the look a client gave to him on his way out, a glance that seemed to echo in every inch of Mark's body…

It's then, Mark is tempted to say, that it all peaked, that every loose end was collected and tied into a nice bow. It's then, he's tempted to assure, that fate crashed down from above, and smacked him on the head.

It's only then, he's tempted to believe - but glancing at the fiber of hemp rope wrapped around his wrist, leading to Jeno's bathroom and the… undead in it, Mark knows it to be false. 

He does have a point, in a way. He never was as close as he was when the (shady) client asked his boss if she'd let Mark cover his search-and-finding of a Joseon dynasty mummy — when he'd said yes before his boss had even finished her sentence, and she'd granted him a two weeks trip to the other side of the country, where the archaeological site was supposed to be. Every past instance in his life had been a faraway moment, staring at his fate from afar — they'd all waited, and piled up, until what they shaped together culminated, and exploded like a thousand fireworks.

Yesterday, only.

With pain coursing through every inch of his body, Mark knows it to be true — but staring up at the ceiling, and feeling a little more like death with each tick on the cat clock Jaemin gifted to Jeno as a joke two years ago, he feels like it was forever ago, and this is his nth day spent in the limbo of confusion. If it weren't for the date on his phone, and the constant reminders that time has been painfully slow rather than the quick flashes it's tricked Mark into experiencing — if it weren't for Jeno calling at two o'clock in the morning to inquire on his health; the other humming as dawn peeked through the clouds; his stomach gurgling every hour to remind him he hasn't eaten in eighteen hours — he would fall for it in a spectacular manner. But as it is — 

As it is, the string around his wrist stiffens, and Mark looks up. The worry that was until then pooling in his stomach lodges itself in his throat, and he waits - for a subtle noise to be heard, for an obvious danger to appear. But all that slips from the bathroom is a melodious giggle, carrying warmth and joy to him — and he waits, just a little more. Perhaps it's fine, perhaps it's only a matter of how ancient the hemp is. It needs to be nursed back to health too — it needs to adjust, after all of yesterday's events.

A little like the other; a little like Mark, too — and with a wince already prepared for the pain the effort will bring him, Mark leans to the right to get a view of the bathroom door — he calls out to the other, and bites back the grunt burning the tip of his tongue.

'You okay?' he asks.

(And he means it: yesterday was absolutely hell, and there's no way he can save their lives the way he did then. There's no way for him to get out of _anything_ unscathed _on his own,_ right now, and the mere thought of having to leave his _soulmate_ behind, no matter how weird he is, leaves a bitter taste to the imagination.)

'Hello?'

He's met with no vocal answer — shuffling and ruffling, in the bathroom, and what seems to be water running, being turned off.

Surely world-class criminals would do a little more noise than that, wouldn't they? They'd probably blow things up - a few jaws and Jeno's precious, precious sink; the fragile oven and then the entire apartment — they wouldn't just turn the water on and off, then leave.

(They would certainly elicit much more than a giggle out of the raging mummy they awoke yesterday, that's for sure, Mark tells himself -

And as the bathroom door opens on a somewhat familiar silhouette, he's happy to be proven right.)

'Stretching that body of yours, sir?'

In-between two contained grunts - Mark cringes. If the seer of his seventeenth birthday had told him his soulmate was a wannabe class clown, he would have reconsidered his decision a few times.

But they didn't, so -

'I'm not… stretching,' Mark pants, more heavily than intended — he straightens himself up with an embarrassing groan, and leans back against the couch, still holding his stupid ice (now lukewarm) pack to his ribs. 'I was worried about you.'

'Worried about me.'

Although his tone leaves much to be desired, Donghyuck's voice is soft, kind to Mark's ears — and though its owner looks a little dry compared to other humans, his gaze carries care to its target.

Unexpected, from a mummy — but then again, Mark thinks as his gaze falls on the fiber around his wrist - _then again…_

'Yeah,' he says. Sounding much less confident than expected, and frankly, a little stupid, a little childish. But Donghyuck keeps standing there, right before him, in sweatpants and a hoodie that Mark hopes to God Jeno never valued much considering the stains of toothpaste Donghyuck has managed to make on it — he keeps standing there, staring at him like Mark is the most fascinating creature on Earth — he hasn't yet run away, doesn't even seem to be considering the idea, and Mark takes it as a sign. He carries on,

'Yeah, I was worried about you. These guys are bound to come back, you know? They're never gonna let us go until they've got you.'

 _And it's gonna be a while before they drop it,_ he mutters — and though it's still a bit hard for him to wrap his mind around the fact that he (they) are being _tracked,_ the ride to Jeno's apartment (the safest place Mark could think of) and his limbo-phase while Donghyuck was dolling himself up (unmummifying himself, really) have greatly helped with letting it sink in. It's still bonkers, still remains something that seems like it's right out of a movie — but Mark's mind has had the opportunity to toy with the idea, and get used to it. Somewhat.

'It's gonna be a while before they get me, you mean.'

Donghyuck's bones creak loudly as he crouches down — his feet clash uglily with the black carpet as he inspects the DVDs on Jeno's shelf — his words register, and Mark frowns.

'What do you mean by that?'

Lost in his contemplation, Donghyuck doesn't reply. _What's Titanic,_ he instead says, DVD in hand, and Mark thinks that he would have thought this whole thing through a little more too, if the seer had told him his soulmate died almost four hundred years ago.

'That's a _Digital Versatile Disc._ A story you can play on a screen. And this story is very sad.'

 _Give it to me,_ he orders — and, surprisingly, Donghyuck obeys. He rises, and looks around — he freezes in his tracks at the sight of Jeno's collection of succulents, and - smiles.

 _What did you mean by 'they won't catch me',_ Mark paraphrases, but all he gets is silence — a hand extended towards the small _black rose_ at the far left of the plate upon which the plants lay, and sudden disorder, as the pot is lifted to eye-level.

'Put that back,' Mark whispers — but Donghyuck ignores him, instead lifts a finger to touch the leaves -

And Mark watches, speechless, as the once-minuscule plant grows and grows and grows — as it buds, and blooms, and seems to reach for Donghyuck — he watches, and gasps as Donghyuck straightens it up; as he places the plant on the floor, by the DVD shelf. 

_How,_ he opens his mouth to say — but the question is stuck in his throat, slips and slips and slips in its attempt to claw out and live — Donghyuck catches his gaze, and understands, _knows_ — he strokes the plant, then laughs.

'I have acquired a little something on my way out, my way up. I have done more than coming back to life.'

He plops down on the floor, right before Mark, and he offers his left hand, palm up, string lost in the sleeve of his hoodie. It's - unusual, suspicious — would be a red flag in any movie, any book. But this is real life, and Mark doesn't do well with hesitation — this is his soulmate, in the flesh even if in dire need of a moisturiser, and Mark — Mark _trusts him._

He lays his hand on Donghyuck's, and clasps his fingers around it — gets a gentle laugh in reply, and he flushes, unsure, suddenly timid.

'I appreciate the sentiment,' Donghyuck says, warm, _fond,_ 'but I meant for you to give me your ice packs.'

'Oh. _Oh.'_

Mark takes his hand back, _flustered,_ and this time, he's the one complying: he fumbles around with his ice packs, hands them to Donghyuck — he watches as he ditches them next to him, and winces as their absence makes itself known.

Yesterday. It was only yesterday that he, _they_ had to fight for their lives. It was only yesterday that he almost got stabbed, and shot, and most probably (Mark still thinks he saw a bazooka glint in the rear-view mirror of the car he stole) blown up. Residing in his own mind, Donghyuckless, it felt like forever ago. Now, with the mummy by his side, pain arising from every inch of his body — it feels much, much too close.

'Where does it hurt?'

Donghyuck's eyes are ponds of warmth, shallow but attentive — they are oceans of safety, deep, bottomless and _there for him,_ and Mark — Mark steps into the water — he trusts to be caught when he falls, and to never drown.

 _Here,_ he quietly indicates, motioning to his ribs, then patting his knee — following Donghyuck's hand with an anxious gaze, an anxious heart as it reaches for his chest. Donghyuck is very much dead (undead), is kind of more bones than flesh — but his gesture is deliberately slow, extremely gentle — his palm is careful, as it brushes against his chest, and his fingers treat Mark like he's glass, porcelain. They come to cup his side tenderly, and glide rather than linger — they stop at the bottom of his ribcage, greenish brown clashing with the white of Mark's tee-shirt — and with a fleeting caress, only given by a decrepit thumb, Mark is granted comfort.

'There?' Donghyuck asks in a whisper — surprising Mark with a gaze that is already set on him; humane and lively eyes awaiting an answer — _yes,_ Mark finds himself unable to reply, and he nods instead, hopes that it will be enough.

It is: warmth seeps through the thin layer of clothing, and drips into Mark's body — the sharp ache that has been gnawing at him since yesterday disappears, and Mark is left - healthy, healed.

He's left surprised, a little bit terrified — and,

 _'What,'_ he gasps — but Donghyuck's hands are already flitting to his injured knee, are already laying it flat on the floor — they both glow green, and they take no time to work their magic through the wound, take no time - reconstructing the skin that's been scratched away, and the bone that's been broken. They make it brand new, as if a truck had never Almost taken Mark's life yesterday, as if he'd never fallen from his bike when he was thirteen — they work better than anything Mark has ever seen, and he - gasps, again — he takes his knee in his hands as soon as it's healed, and he examines it, awed.

'Sorry. I'm still not used to all this power. Did you wish to keep that?'

 _I can try to give you something similar,_ Donghyuck mutters — but Mark ignores his offer, shakes his head — he takes his hands into his, palms facing the ceiling, and he inspects them.

'How did you do that?' he says, exhilarated — finding absolutely nothing but mummy crust, softer than expected but still very much not what he's looking for — looking up, into Donghyuck's eyes, and flushing at the small smirk gracing him on his way up.

'I told you. I acquired a little something on my way out.'

Donghyuck's hands crack as he stretches them — they desert Mark's, and venture up, wrap around his right forearm - one atop of it, the other securely holding his elbow — going down as it starts glowing green, and removing the nasty scratch Mark had completely forgotten about. It's impressive, just as impressive as what Donghyuck did to his knee — but the other leaves no time for Mark to gape at it, and he abandons his arm — he reaches up, cups Mark's face in an odd manner (fingers splayed on his cheeks, thumbs joined on his nose), and smiles when their eyes meet.

'You have scratches here too,' he explains — and his gaze drops, flickers to Mark's forehead, nose, cheek, chin — it wanders on his face, and Mark feels it heat up, for a reason that has nothing to do with the warmth emanating from the mummified hands.

'You're magic,' he mutters, 'you have powers.'

 _This is insane,_ he mumbles to himself — the words hitting Donghyuck's hands as they climb out of his lips, meaning to keep to themselves — but Donghyuck hears them, and he grins, lets out a laugh.

'It's not insane,' he says — lowering his hands, and inspecting Mark's face — turning off his magic, but cupping his cheeks, still (and Mark hopes to God that whatever it is that flows through Donghyuck's veins, doesn't allow him to hear his heart). 'It's fairly logical. Or well, it isn't, but that's why it makes sense. Fate ties the both of us together. You wake me up — I gotta have a spark when I rise, don't i? The dead rarely awaken, after all.'

Mark frowns, considers the explanation — finds that it makes no sense to him, none whatsoever — but it seems to work, for Donghyuck; it seems to be crystal clear to him, and absolutely rational - so he lets it go, and nods — mutters an I _guess,_ and lets Donghyuck give a caress to the line of his jaw as he pulls back.

'It's nothing to worry about,' Donghyuck reassures him — patting his never-once-injured knee, then retracting his hand, 'Don't fret. It's all good.'

 _It's rather great news, actually,_ he adds with a wink, and it takes a while for Mark to catch up — it takes him a look to the mess on the coffee table, and his ice packs — a look to the baseball bat he dozed off holding, and the screen of his phone, open on flight offers to Spain.

 _Right._ Yesterday. The evil shady guys, and their desire to steal Donghyuck from his tomb. Their multiple attempts on their lives, and their promise that they will not stop, not for now, not for a long time.

Fate all along, apparently — but with Donghyuck by his side, Mark isn't quite sure what _fate_ has in store for him, doesn’t truly know what he’s supposed to be doing. When it turns out your soulmate is dead, and also has powers, it turns your world upside-down, and Mark believes his hasn't yet stabilised after yesterday's events.

'We're gonna be okay?'

Donghyuck - laughs at the wording, softly — he offers his palm, again, but this time accepts Mark's embrace wordlessly — he channels _something_ into their linked hands, and watches as they glow pink.

'As long as you stick with me, you’ll be alright,' he says — taking a seat at Mark's left, leaning against the couch like him, except with a worrying _creak_ — humming softly, and - tentatively resting his head on Mark's shoulder. 'I know it's not the peachiest solution for you, and you probably wish your soulmate were, like, the cute cashier down the street, but…'

'That’s how it is,' Mark finishes, and Donghyuck squeezes his hand, replies with a dry _yeah._

'Disappointing, isn’t it?'

'No.'

It's a surprisingly fast answer, much too quick to have been thought-through — but as Mark questions himself and his feelings, he realises that it's the truth, and that he means it. Having Donghyuck as a soulmate has mostly caused him problems so far — it's rather dangerous, and has almost cost him his life, _multiple times_ — but Donghyuck appears to be worth it, just a little more than the cute cashier he indeed had a crush on a few years back — he isn't a disappointing obligation, and Mark would like him to know that.

'We had a rocky start, is all. It's okay.' He tangles his fingers with Donghyuck's, watches as their hands glow brighter — he nods, to himself, and rests his head upon his. 'It's fine as long as I'm with you, you said. I'll trust you on that.’

Donghyuck's thumb gives him a poke, a caress — its owner laughs, softly, just as melodious as before, and Mark knows — 

'You better buckle up, then. I think we have a long way to go.'

He's made the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> words heard right after the end of this: ‘can we watch Titanic, now?’
> 
> title is an attempt at a wordplay. 'ma mie' is a (now obsolete) pet name in french. a contraction of 'mon amie', it means 'my (feminine) friend', but can also be used romantically.  
> the lack of -e turns 'mi' into a prefix that represents 'the half of something, the middle, an intermediate state' (cr. larousse). half-, mid-. 'ma mi' can thus be interpreted as 'my half'.  
> and if you try reaaaaally hard enough, it sounds like momie, or its english equivalent, mummy. hehehe
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/millesoirees)


End file.
